Quintessence
by kittykittyhunter
Summary: Even prodigies have their limits. To overcome the greatest wall, Ryoma seeks the assistance of a strong rival: Tokugawa Kazuya.
1. prologue

Goodness gracious, it's been a while.

A fair few people asked me for a story featuring Ryoma and Kazuya and well, here it is (finally). I finished writing it back in 2012 so it's pretty… old.

* * *

**QUINTESSENCE**

kittykittyhunter

**…**

**Prologue**

* * *

He could not forget the defeat.

During the night, after the long hours of practice had ended and he was enjoying well-earned rest, he dreamed. The fragments of a violent memory disrupted his sleep: yellow spheres flew at him from all directions before landing on the floor with dissonant thuds. The enemy could serve multiple tennis balls at once. How unique.

The next time they met, the debt would be levelled.

Where was that Japanese player now? Not on the circuit, as he was meant to be, but exercising at some pathetic facility in his stinking country. No matter. The place would be easy enough to track down.

Besides, revenge was best served cold.

Or in this case… painfully hot.


	2. chapter one

I forgot to mention last time that, for a while, the story follows a mix of events from the anime and the manga. Then, it goes off on a tangent.

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

He had caused enough commotion at the summer tournaments to merit a consecutive invitation to the Under-17 training camp. As a member of the First Court, no less. He was pleased – though he would have been more enthusiastic had the other clause ceased to exist.

In a few days' time, they would begin baby-sitting fifty middle school brats.

TOKUGAWA KAZUYA  
High School; Year #2  
All-Rounder

His seniors, Irie Kanata and Oni Juujirou, quite liked the idea. "I'm looking forward to seeing what they're capable of," Irie confessed. "Apparently, the Tokyo Nationals were quite the show."

Irie was not dangerous to look at. He was slender, with fair, curly hair. His amber eyes were framed by round glasses. By comparison, Oni was terrifying. He was broadly built. His mane was dark red and his eyes were deeply set. His teeth were like polished rocks.

Irie and Oni of the Third and Fifth Courts. Kazuya was the tallest of the three. His hair was dark blue. It contrasted with his glacial eyes.

Appearances meant nothing. They would put the children in their place.

**…**

Later that afternoon, he would catch a plane. He had called ahead to ensure that his classmate went to the meeting spot with his belongings. He was ready to reclaim the stage.

ECHIZEN RYOMA  
Middle School; Year #1  
All-Rounder

Nanjiroh's next shot bounced high. The ball almost dislodged Ryoma's nose – he ducked. Across the court, the old man did not strike an imposing figure. He was tanned, poorly shaven and had a crop of untidy hair. Dressed in dark robes, he could have been mistaken for a monk.

Which would have made sense if they'd been back in Japan, rallying on the court that Nanjiroh had marked behind the temple. Ryoma's father had concerned himself with sweeping the grounds and leafing through magazines while his son was at school. But this was Los Angeles. Here, the Echizens could play tennis matches in the garden.

"Boy, you'll probably never make it to this camp at all," Nanjiroh called. "I've seen kites with more direction!"

"I'll make it just fine." Ryoma was ready to receive the powerful serve; Nanjiroh feinted, playing a shallow ball that barely bounced. Ryoma dashed forward, cursing – he nearly scraped his red racquet along the ground to reply. "Besides," he continued, "you and Mom will join me soon, right? When Mom's holidays begin?"

Nanjiroh smashed the ball. It crashed one centimetre shy of the doubles alley and rolled beyond the lines.

"You sound worried."

"Tch."

Ryoma was scrawny. He had short green hair and hazel eyes. He did not possess the frame of a boy who could challenge the world.

But that was what he intended to do.

**…**

"Their buses will arrive soon," said Irie. "Shall we go say hello?"

"In a while," Oni grunted. "I don't want to give those upstarts the wrong idea."

The previous year, Kazuya had spent precious little time at the U-17 facility. The first day had provided a guided tour. The high school boys had marvelled at the impressive gyms, the clipped courts, the spacious dorms. Kazuya was accustomed to them all.

Twenty-four hours later, he'd sorely missed the camp's luxuries.

They were in the cafeteria. It was well-stocked with local and continental foods. Kazuya was drinking Earl Grey. No sugar. No milk.

Irie crammed the last of a pastry into his mouth. "We've given them long enough," he said, rising from his seat. "Any longer and we'll miss the fireworks."

A chair scraped backwards. Oni was on his feet. Kazuya followed the seniors. His tea sat on the table, half-finished.

**…**

The euphoria of winning the Nationals is consuming. They nurse their injuries. They go to Kawamura Sushi. They whoop and cheer and take photographs. Most of all, they admire the trophy.

Ryoma has stacks of awards on a cabinet at home. They lie on their sides. His mother, Echizen Rinko, occasionally chides her child about the mess. She is too busy winning cases and running the household to give it much consideration.

He runs his finger along one gold handle. Engraved on the cup are the words _SEISHUN GAKUEN_. The trophy will be placed in the school's entrance hall, behind a sheet of glass.

For the third years especially, this is the fulfilment of a grand dream. How long will the regulars continue to celebrate?

It has been three days of bliss.

Their little one will be leaving that night.

**…**

Personal matches were completely prohibited. It was best to throw out the player with the purple hat. That would spare them the hassle of drilling rules into his thick skull. As for the left-handed imp… Kazuya scowled. Middle school students did not belong at the camp. Even though they had managed to catch the tokens that fell from the sky, even though they had put on an exceptional spectacle at the Forest of Arenas, the novices did not have the skills to survive.

Who walked forward first? Kazuya wasn't sure. In any case, it was a small detail. They exchanged words.

But the freshman turned his insolent gaze towards the high school junior. He threw down a challenge.

And Kazuya swivelled towards the boy.

"Do you want to go home that badly?"

Not a muscle twitched. He was rigid with fear.

**…**

Tooyama Kintarou wrinkled his nose. "Koshimae, these guys weren't a challenge at all." He glowered at the fallen high school players, as though they should have trained in anticipation of being attacked by a couple of rookies.

Ryoma shrugged. He was used to facing opponents older than himself: over the years, he had cut down seniors, college students and university players. There was only one man on the horizon whom he still had no hope of surpassing. That had fuelled part of his desire to return to Japan. If he got away, he could equip himself with the weapons to overthrow the old man. Samurai Junior, tearing apart Samurai Nanjiroh.

The boy shook his head. He was getting carried away. First, they needed to find their way back to the main facility.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, Ryoma and Kintarou stared at each other. They could hear a series of steady thuds – people were rallying nearby.

Shitenhouji's strongest talent led the way. It was not long before he and Ryoma were standing on a grassy verge, looking down at the battling duo.

Jackpot.

On one side of the net was the huge, angry guy. On the other was the senior with the Black Jack Knife, the one who had destroyed Momoshiro's wrists.


	3. chapter two

On with the show!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

The upstarts were grinning. After a glance at Oni, Kazuya stepped onto the court. He'd had a feeling that he would play the Seigaku freshman, sooner or later. He told the boy as much.

Echizen smirked; the match opened and he folded into a swift volley. Kazuya replied with an easy backhand. He wasn't being pushed, though the other was slowly improving, reading the points, taking the match seriously.

No. Kazuya refused to call it a match.

This boy was nothing.

Kazuya jumped and smashed the ball. He watched Echizen's face, expecting to see the usual expression – the twisted mouth, the wide eyes: undiluted terror. But Echizen's terror had been supplanted. In fact he was…

Enjoying himself.

Kazuya's heels touched the ground. On the other court, Oni was combating the other freshman, who had wild limbs and stupid names for his techniques. At least, Kazuya mused, he'd gotten the slightly more sensible one.

The minutes ticked by.

Grudgingly, the junior came to an admission. Echizen was good. He had the potential to be better. If he had the guts, he could ascend…

Echizen lay on the ground, spread-eagled. Kazuya began to walk away. Then he made a detour and stopped a few metres short of the body. Overhead, the crows cawed. Higher still would be the eagles.

"You should meet Coach Mifune," said Kazuya.

That was enough. His act of goodwill for the month. Oni and Kazuya left the first years under the blazing sun.

**…**

Was that an ant crawling along his skin, or a sense of shame creeping over his muscles? Somehow, embarrassment had twined with euphoria. He'd been soundly defeated, yet, it was as Kintarou said: they'd come to an interesting place.

The sky continued to change its silken shawls – then a shadow loomed over the rookies.

**…**

It's one of those rare afternoons where his father has the time to sit and watch TV. Kazuya is six. He has been part of a prestigious tennis club for the past twelve months. He loves the sport.

There's an important match airing. It's an Australian hotshot versus Kazuya's hero – Samurai Nanjiroh.

The Samurai's long hair is swept in a high ponytail. His tennis makes Kazuya clench his fingers into his palms. Father and son lean forward until they're almost slipping off the leather sofa, until they're practically crouching on the floor.

"That man," says the senior Tokugawa, "has done this nation proud. Watch, Kazuya."

**…**

He'd climbed rocks before. It was difficult to scale the cliff-face; he did not have the reach of the older students and some footholds weren't solid. He had entrusted his life to his fingers, nails wedged in cramped crevices.

Below, his seniors were having a harder time. Momoshiro's wrists were gone. There was no hope of him climbing the mountain.

So Kaidoh Kaoru lent a hand.

They were incredible. Ryoma watched as Kaidoh ascended. The freshman's smile was hidden by his jersey's collar.

Onward and onward. Ryoma continued to rise. He was going to be the first to the summit –

Down came a torrent of tennis balls.

**…**

For some peculiar reason, Oni thought well of the middle school boys. Kazuya did not know who'd put the scruffy bunch together, but included in the group were a few captains, a bumbling second year and a foreign freshman. Echizen had failed to show up for his match, and having lost by default, the freshman was on the bus home.

Or so most people thought.

The skipping rope whistled each time it passed over Kazuya's head. He clearly recalled last summer: riding tricycles up rocky hills, sleeping in what was probably a haunted cave. The Sportsman Hunt.

Those kids would learn a lot under Coach Mifune's thumb. In a few years' time, when Kazuya's road intersected with Ryoma's, they would rally again.

Perhaps the boy would last another half hour.

**…**

Deep down, Ryoma thought it was a useless skill. Nowhere had he come across a tournament where players were required to serve more than one tennis ball at once. It defied logic. It made no sense.

But since Tokugawa could do it, Ryoma was determined to learn.

He'd suffered beatings before. Prior to their match at the Kantou Regiona Finals, Rikkaidai's Sanada Genichirou explained why he was nicknamed the Emperor. Weeks earlier, the captain had summoned Ryoma to the Haruno University courts, then proceeded to demonstrate why the boy's tennis was flawed. And, of course, there was Ryoma's strongest rival – the man was probably lounging about, flicking through magazines and teasing Karupin.

That high school guy was no different.

Ryoma loved a fight.

**…**

It was long past midnight. Though practice began early, Kazuya was still awake. He sat on the cycling machine, the pedals' repetitive motion aiding his thoughts.

Those middle school boys were showing more spine than expected. Already the coaches had commended their efforts. They did not complete exercises as quickly as the older boys, yet kept a reasonable pace. Irie was right. This bunch had a little something to them, after all.

And the others? Kazuya's mind drifted to the cliff-top, to the court strewn with stones. Last summer, he had contemplated flushing away his shame by throwing himself into the river. He had been humiliated multiple times – first he had encountered _that_ person. Then, he had met Coach Mifune.

The man showed no mercy.

When he spat, phlegm landed on the ground and glistened in the sunlight. When he spoke, it was to swear, to curse the tennis players and call them worthless. It was painful. It was educational.

A sharp sound interrupted Kazuya's reverie.

Deep, persistent buzzing. He stopped pedalling. Was that a fire alarm? No – they'd all learnt the tone during the tour.

In an instant, Kazuya remembered.

A security breach. Someone had tripped over the lasers during the special mission.

He smiled. So they'd failed, too.

If they'd been sent on the task, the coach thought they showed promise.

**…**

They descended the mountain to find that everything had changed.

The eight regulars converged, some wearing the patriotic jerseys supplied by the camp, others donning the black uniforms provided by Coach Mifune. The second group were in a bad state. Holes had appeared in Ryoma's white baseball cap; strands of his hair poked through.

"So he's gone," someone muttered. "I wish him all the best."

There was a collective nod. Fuji began, "As long as we all continue to play tennis…"

Ryoma watched a cloud move to obscure the light. The silver fringe burned his eyes.

They would never be Seigaku again.


	4. chapter three

[Note: I didn't come up with the training game in this chapter. Credits go to PurpleScorpion**!**]

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

He's picking himself up from his knees. Looking through the net, the high school freshman glimpses his opponent turning away – Byoudouin Houou, a junior who has just trampled Kazuya's pride.

He opens his mouth, but it has been so long since he was last wrecked by defeat that the left-handed player does not know what to say. He barely knows what to feel.

Except for simmering hatred.

**…**

The sun was beginning to set. That sky was dyed orange and red. As expected, Ryoma discovered Tokugawa Kazuya on a tennis court. The older boy was alone.

"Hey." Ryoma took his place at the baseline.

Tokugawa asked, "Is the old man doing well?"

"He's doing _too_ well."

The junior threw a ball into the air and brought the face of his racquet crashing against it. The serve was fast – but arduous training had improved Ryoma's speed. He bent his knees and answered the initial shot with a two-handed return.

Tokugawa was a master at understanding trajectory; before the ball had traversed to his side of the court, he was in position. His next swing sent Ryoma cruising along the white lines.

"Even if our limbs should break!"

Snapped bones? Ryoma laughed. He would endure it all, everything, no matter how painful. He jumped into the air.

"You're not there _yet_!"

**…**

Kazuya's nightmare had come to fruition. Instead of simply training with the middle school students, the older boys would practise against the camp rejects.

The only time he found peace was in Room 102. Oni (apart from his fondness for a hamster called Kaede) was normal. Irie (except for when he played the saxophone in the middle of the night) was ordinary. The three shared the space in amiable peace.

Where the _younger_ teens were concerned, however…

Eating contests. Karaoke matches. Pillow fights. Since personal games were off-limits, the athletes used any opportunity to brawl. One scuffle ended with a junior tripping halfway down a flight of stairs.

Kazuya completed his stretches. He had to focus.

**…**

Mukahi Gakuto twitched. "You want us…"

Itaru Saitou tilted his head. "To rally with this potato? Why yes, of course. Please consider the fact that it could be worse. I could have provided a raw egg."

The Hyoutei regular opened his mouth and Ryoma noticed Shishido elbowing his teammate. Mukahi scrunched up his features, but said nothing more.

They were a group of eight: Ryoma, Momoshiro, Mukahi, Shishido, Amane, Hakamada, Kaji and Tokugawa. Once again, Ryoma didn't understand the training exercise. The eight players stood in a large, loose circle. They had to pass… the potato… from one person to the next, only using specific areas of their racquets. Anyone who struck another player with his racquet, or allowed the potato to fall, was out.

Momoshiro began, sending the potato towards Shishido.

"Hah, Momoshiro –" Shishido dashed towards the potato; it spiralled to the high school representatives, "you'll have to do better than that."

When Hakamada sent the potato flying at Ryoma, the freshman was ready. He had been instructed to use only the frame of his racquet – but before he could react, the potato had been returned by the one with the longest reach.

Amane.

Ryoma scowled, but the junior said, "I'm on tiptoe, returning this potato."

"Idiot," muttered the freshman.

The projectile flew at Mukahi with so much power that he leapt back to receive it – the angle was awkward and he caught Kaji's arm.

"Mukahi and Kaji are out!"

The two broke away from the circle.

This time, Tokugawa began. He served at Hakamada – a fast shot. Two losses to the First Court player had shown Ryoma Tokugawa's strength.

Apparently, he liked to make life difficult.

Momoshiro. Ryoma. Shishido. Tokugawa. On and on the cycle went, until Amane intercepted Momo's Jack Knife and walloped Hakamada in the process.

"No good!"

"Amane and Momoshiro are out!"

Looking thoughtful, Amane ran a hand through his tangled hair. "My racquet has caused… a racket."

Mukahi threw something at the Rokkaku junior.

Now there were four people left. They stood in a square and the supervisor told them which areas of the racquets they were each to use. Ryoma was allocated the very centre. Alright, at least he'd have the freedom to move around.

Shishido's lob sailed in an arc. Tokugawa replied with a smash; Ryoma scraped his knees trying to return it – but there was another shot coming at him from Hakamada: wait, the other three were toying with him – no matter who Ryoma fired the potato at, they'd return it his way.

He jumped. The potato careered towards Shishido. The Hyoutei senior struck the vegetable but Hakamada hit it with the wrong strings.

"Shishido and Hakamada are out!"

The freshman smirked at the remaining challenger.

"Now," said the supervisor, "use your racquets however you wish."

**…**

The kid was tenacious. That much was certain.

They had been rallying for fifteen minutes, and every time Tokugawa believed he was about to clinch victory, the boy retaliated. They were both all-rounders: each possessed a wide arsenal of lobs, smashes, volleys, drop shots.

Kazuya forced incredible spin onto the potato. Echizen was gone.

He didn't move his feet.

"No way!"

"Don't tell me Echizen's using _that_!"

The present blurred with the past. Kazuya watched, dazed. No matter how the junior struck the potato, it returned to the freshman, as though Echizen were the centre of gravity. He was keeping one foot stationary while moving the other. His shoes had marked grooves in the ground.

Kazuya had only ever seen one other person employ the same technique.

And – it was finished. Echizen shifted his weight. He'd won the game.

**…**

Later, in Room 206, Ryoma towelled his wet hair and approached the desk. His phone's screen was flashing. There was a message from his mother:

_My holidays have started, so once the camp ends, you can come home. I hope you're having fun and learning a lot. Fight hard. x_

He wished that he could have brought Karupin.

**…**

The strongest players returned.

Everyone prepared for the imminent war in his own way: Oni resumed his true seat while others resorted to sleeping in the gym. Kazuya sought the freshman. They rallied on the outdoor courts.

He could not shake the image from his mind, but before he could ask, Echizen began hurling questions. He wanted to know about the mountain.

Kazuya told him about Byoudouin Houou.

A third year. The number one. A monster who could terrify his opponent with a single glance. Kazuya would pay any price to beat him. Even death.

As he spoke, someone served. Kazuya wrenched away in time – the ball struck the wall and a chunk of stone fell away.

Kazuya and Echizen twisted. Byoudouin was serving again. This time, the ball rocketed towards Kazuya –

It fell to the ground, struck by another sphere. A newcomer strode onto the court, holding a black racquet. He wore a dark hood and a mask.

"No, I'm sorry," he said in a low voice, speaking in English. "This is _my_ vengeance."


	5. chapter four

Gosh, sorry about the delay!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Ryoma's eyes travelled first to Tokugawa, who was stunned but unhurt; then to the wall, which needed a repair; then to Byoudouin, whose eyes were furious and, finally, to the stranger. He was around the same height as Kikumaru Eiji. Why was he dressed so theatrically?

Byoudouin snarled in English, "Who the hell are you? Take off that mask before I rip it off your face!"

"I've got nothing to say to you," the other drawled, "but since you ask, call me – Mars."

He swivelled. Ryoma's stomach tangled.

The mask had been expertly painted. A layer of pink and red was crusted with rings of brown, black and grey. It resembled a face that had been badly burned.

"Tokugawa," continued Mars, "it's been a while. Almost too long."

The junior folded his arms. "I have no interest in playing you."

Now Byoudouin was crossing the court – maybe he really _was_ going to peel away Mars' fake face – the stranger side-stepped and stared at the three. Mars said, "I suggest you reconsider." Ryoma couldn't place the accent. Something about the voice sounded artificial.

"Or what?"

There was a metallic cylinder strapped across Mars' back. He shrugged it off, twisting the lid with one gloved hand. Immediately, Ryoma caught the vile stench of petrol. Byoudouin and Tokugawa smelt it too. The senior snarled, "What –"

Mars produced a dripping tennis ball. Then he whispered, "TNT."

He moved his hand – and the ball was aflame. He served.

Not at Byoudouin, or Tokugawa or Ryoma: the ball rocketed over their heads, towards the facility. The first sparks landed and the freshman numbly registered that Mars must have been watching the camp for days: the whole world was shaking with thunderous booms. Everywhere the site was beginning to blaze.

"_YOU_!"

Mars launched another ball at the net, another at the trees – he danced around the tennis balls the trio served at him, evading with intricate footwork – and suddenly, finished, he laughed and sprang away.

Tokugawa was about to follow – Byoudouin crashed his knuckles into the junior's jaw.

"The cameras will get him. THE OTHERS!"

A high wail filled Ryoma's ears. They'd learned the sound during the tour.

Fire alarm.

With a final glance at Tokugawa, Ryoma sprinted towards the camp.

…

Carnage.

Kazuya's organs were fashioned with heat and frost. He was angry and afraid. Thankfully, the alarms had activated and woken the entirebuilding, but that man, Mars – that _arsonist_ – couldn't have been working alone, not for such a coordinated attack. The fire brigade had been called, but the camp was in a remote location…

Middle school and high school boys screamed as they ran and rolled on the floor; the coaches were spluttering as they tried to hoard the masses to a holding ground; Oni, Kawamura and Akutsu were among those who shielded their faces to rush back into the haze. Some of the sprinklers had switched on. Others refused to work.

Kazuya reached one of the third years. He choked, "Have the dorms been evacuated?"

Tanegashima had to shout over the roar. "I hope so!"

…

A shivering Ryoma stood beside Oishi. He looked around, counting his seniors one by one; his heart stopped when he did not see Fuji – the senior had an arm around his younger brother's shoulders. There was not a single person whose face or clothes hadn't been blackened by smoke.

The head coach was called Kurobe. His brown hair was styled in tendrils. All were quiet when he spoke. "We can count our blessings," he said, "that everyone is here."

In his peripheral vision Ryoma noticed that Yukimura Seiichi's hand was resting on a freshman's head.

"The buses shall soon arrive," Kurobe went on. "You will all return home immediately. What occurred here is a disaster but I can assure you that we will find out what happened."

"We can still train."

Mifune took a single step and slapped the speaker across the face. The boy fell to the ground; the coach spat a string of insults before finishing,

"You halfwit! Do you think tennis is more important than your life? Will your parents be satisfied with a corpse for a son if it can serve and volley?" He pounded his foot into the boy's back. "ANSWER ME!"

"Nyudou, please!"

The coach inhaled and retreated. He took a shaky gulp from his bottle. Then he announced in a steady voice, "You're all children."

Far away, the fire-fighters were dousing the camp.

Then Byoudouin, the strongest, said, "He's right. Go home and be on your guard."

…

He tapped his long fingers on the back of the freshman's head. Echizen turned. His cheeks were smudged and his golden eyes were dull. "Tokugawa-san," he said quietly.

Kazuya asked, "Are you alright?"

Echizen's shoulders dropped a few centimetres. "I hate losing. What about you?"

"More than anything."

A new voice rumbled, "You're both stupid."

Kazuya and Echizen swivelled towards the man at the same time. They chorused, "Coach Mifune."

Mifune took another swig of his drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then cleaned his hand on his clothes. "Tsuge told me what happened. Some coward calling himself Mars – and he had a vendetta.

"For now, leave it behind. He'll turn up again, and when he does, you can break all his bones." The coach glowered with bleary eyes. "Or those cameras will get him. We have a million."

"That's what Byoudouin-san said," muttered Echizen.

"Houou? Hah!" Mifune snorted. He was beginning to sway on his heels. "They're in place for people like him – people like you two. You're Japan's greatest hopes. We have to keep you safe."

He broke into a coughing fit and ambled away, cursing.

"Train hard, Echizen."

"You too. We have unfinished business."

They tapped knuckles and went to their respective buses.


	6. chapter five

Okay, a much faster update this time.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

"I'm home!"

"I'm in the kitchen."

Ryoma found his mother rearranging things in the fridge. There were two boxed lunches on the table. "Have a bite to eat," said Rinko, slotting a tub of butter beside some celery, "then take those over to your father."

"'Kay."

_Two_ lunches? Ryoma felt jealous. What had the old man done to deserve such generosity?

He ploughed through his meal. The sky was overcast and Ryoma wanted to reach the temple before it began raining.

After he'd returned from the U-17 camp, during the first few days, his mother had been anxious, wanting to keep her boy under close watch. She cooked his favourite things and restocked the bathroom with a selection of scented bath salts.

Finally, Ryoma had to say, "Mom – I'm alright. Everything's okay."

She pursed her lips and nodded. Slowly, they returned to the normal routine. They wouldn't be staying in Tokyo for much longer, but it felt so good to be back in this house, with its large back garden and spacious living room.

He was too fearful of spilling the food to run to the temple, but walked with a steady gait. On the way he saw Dan Taichi – he nodded, and the other freshman waved. Ryoma suspected that they were both dealing with what had happened at the camp in their own ways: Dan, by putting it behind him, Ryoma, by increasing the intensity of his rallies with his father.

When he arrived at the temple, he did not see the old man. That was usual – Nanjiroh liked to lie under the bell out at the back, rope tied around his ankle so that he could sound the relevant chimes without getting up. Sometimes, Ryoma's teachers remarked that he was lazy. It was not hard to see why.

"Old man," he called, "where are you?"

No response.

Frowning, Ryoma made his way through the temple. He found Nanjiroh sitting on the porch looking onto the tennis court. He was not alone.

Ryoma almost dropped the food. He lowered himself until crouching on his toes. His pulse was thundering.

"You could've finished everything," grunted Mifune. He patted his stomach. "One more win. If there's one thing I hate, it's guys who give up."

"Yet you didn't turn pro at all."

The old man was not using his high, wheedling voice but speaking like an adult. Ryoma stopped crouching and sat on the floor, cross-legged. Coach Mifune had taken a bus or train to Tokyo and was talking to Nanjiroh…

And – wait.

Had they _met_ before?

Mifune said, "Your kid takes after you. Same ugly backhand, same stupid attitude. Your tennis is crap."

Nanjiroh snorted. "I'm not there yet."

There was a pause as Mifune took a swig from his bottle. Nanjiroh's stomach grumbled – he clutched his sides, wincing. "Aargh! Where is that idiot boy?"

Silently, Ryoma slid the two boxes towards the men.

Mifune turned and saw the lunches. "Fool. They've been here all this time."

"I shall gladly receive!"

They said nothing as they ate. Coach Mifune had one heck of an appetite, that was for sure. For the first time, Ryoma wondered if it was really alright to sit there – but the situation was too bizarre for him to avert his gaze, rise and walk away.

Were they going to play a match?

When the food was finished, Nanjiroh said, "I saw Taizou."

"That waste of space? What's he doing?"

"Coaching at Midoriyama," answered Nanjiroh. "He has a brat of his own. Kid's a year older than my one."

Mifune belched.

"I dunno why any of us ever bothered with kids. Whiny idiots, never understanding the sacrifices you make for them. Tell me that you've had a challenge in the last decade."

Nanjiroh rubbed the back of his skull with the heel of his hand.

"One day," he said, "I will."

"You need a brain transplant."

"You need a new liver."

**…**

In January, Kazuya touched down in Los Angeles.

Within a few days, it had become one of his favourite cities. He loved the sounds and sights. He loved the food. He loved the steady temperature and the bustling ferocities of _life_.

Best of all, there were plenty of strong people to play. He would remain in America for the next month, having arranged to participate in a string of tournaments.

Kazuya looked over his training schedule and decided that he wasn't doing enough. Coach Mifune had been right – Mars would return, one day, but even he wasn't the worst of Kazuya's problems. The junior had people he needed to defeat.

He wanted to be the strongest.

**…**

He couldn't even defeat Tokugawa.

"C'mon boy!" Nanjiroh yowled. "Put some heart into it!"

Ryoma missed the next point. The racquet fell from his hand.

"Hey – brat! What's gotten into you?"

He gazed at his father. That loud, bumbling, annoying man was a caricature. In truth, Echizen Nanjiroh was a tennis fanatic who had placed all his dreams on the head of one incapable boy.

And Ryoma couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Oi…" Nanjiroh came to the net. He peered at his son. "What's up, Ryoma?"

Could he put it into words? Ryoma had always been so bad at expressing himself. Sentences looped in his throat. But his father wanted to know.

His father.

Ryoma's hands became fists. He looked at Nanjiroh and opened his mouth – but the light in his father's eyes made Ryoma flush with shame. He lowered his chin until he was talking to the court.

"I'm nowhere near your level," he said quietly. "At first, the only reason I played tennis was because you forced me to. Then my only goal was to defeat you."

Nanjiroh did not speak.

"That hasn't changed. You still the person I need to defeat. Yet…" he looked at his father. Nanjiroh's fingers had closed over the top of the net. Ryoma swallowed. "By the time I'll be strong enough to beat you, you won't be as strong as you are now, so it won't be the same. Where does that leave me? I can never, _ever_ surpass you."

"Ryoma…"

"I apologise. I don't challenge you."

He strode past the old man, longing to hide among the orange trees.


	7. chapter six

I'm so sorry for the immensely slow update.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

* * *

Spying a white hat, Kazuya called, "Echizen."

The boy looked up.

He had grown (a little) since they'd last met. Kazuya nodded and they fell into step. How strange that they should meet in California.

"What tournaments have you done, Tokugawa-san?"

Kazuya ran through the competitions. Every so often, his words were drowned by passing traffic, so he repeated himself. Echizen was walking slightly ahead, steering the route. Though the freshman wasn't carrying a tennis bag, Kazuya was shouldering three racquets. A match would be no problem.

Echizen approached a vending machine. He selected a strawberry Fanta for himself and tossed a bottle of water to Kazuya, who inclined his head.

"I'm entering that Under-Sixteen thing."

"When is it?"

"Saturday morning."

The junior drained a third of the bottle. The cold water had quenched his thirst. Now, he felt hungry. "Echizen," he said, "I have a question."

"Shoot."

"When we were completing that potato challenge…" Kazuya watched as Echizen's head whipped up; whatever the boy had been expecting, _that_ wasn't it. Kazuya went on, "You used an interesting technique."

"Oh, well." Echizen sighed. "I learned it from watching my captain… and my dad."

Kazuya took another sip of water. "So your father's Samurai Nanjiroh?"

"Yeah."

His hunch was confirmed. Echizen didn't seem too awestruck by his father's identity – but that was the thing with parents. Even if they were superstars in their own field, at home, they were normal people: disciplinarians who tied shoelaces.

Kazuya said, "Perhaps you were too small to remember, but when I was growing up, your father was admired by any family in Japan who had the vaguest interest in sports. It was a shock when he retired. I'm sure he had his reasons."

The younger boy tapped one foot. His mouth was grim. "Tough guy aside," said Echizen, "how far ahead of me would you say you are?"

Thinking for a few moments, the junior concluded, "Three years."

Their eyes met.

"I wonder," Echizen began, "if you'd accept my request."

**…**

They met every day, between school and tournaments. In two months, Tokugawa Kazuya had improved – the positioning of his elbow was better and he put less pressure on his calves. A wish sizzled behind Ryoma's ribs; he tried to keep logical, not to fly too far ahead. He hoped, he sincerely hoped, that it would be enough.

Tokugawa was a severe taskmaster – as bad as the captain. Once or twice, his shots flung Ryoma's racquet from his hand. The boy was delighted. This was what he needed.

**…**

Echizen says, "I'm not just a child, but _his_ child. That's the difference."

Kazuya nods. He can see the wound that's been scored into the freshman's pride: Echizen's ambitions are wrapped up in tennis, but at the same time, go beyond tennis. If the boy maintains focus over the coming years, Kazuya is sure that he will slowly climb the world rankings until winning a Grand Slam.

The first of many.

They're sitting in a stylish café. Kazuya's drinking tea, Echizen's slurping a smoothie. The young boy's emotions are so easy to manipulate. On a court, that could be a detriment.

Kazuya will be leaving LA in precisely four days. The weekend is all they have to make a change.

**…**

It was not difficult for Ryoma to advance to the finals of the U-16 championship. He had registered his coach as Tokugawa, but his opponent had come to the tournament alone. The other was sixteen; he had golden hair cut into wild spikes and sharp, green eyes. As soon as Tokugawa saw the older teen, he tapped Ryoma's shoulder.

"I played him last year, in Spain."

The protégé glanced at his mentor. "Result?"

"Best of three sets. Six-two, six-four."

Ryoma nodded and pulled the cap over his eyes.

There was a swagger to Carter Grisham's gait. Ryoma disliked him immediately. Grisham's information listed him as a right-handed aggressive baseliner. Ryoma hadn't paid attention to the rest.

Three sets. Ryoma would finish it in two.

It began with Grisham's serve. Though the ball left the racquet with a cannon's boom, there was no unusual spin, nothing worrying. Ryoma returned the shot with ease. Within a few minutes, the game was concluded. Ryoma broke serve.

They changed court, passing close to one another. Grisham muttered, "Not bad."

Ryoma frowned.

He decided to invite some flair – he used the Twist Serve. Though most were surprised the first time they faced the technique from such a small player, Grisham knew how to counter the bounce: he stepped around the ball and sent it cross court.

Instinct commanded Ryoma to raise the racquet, but the ball tapped the frame and landed at his feet. He had the best eyes at Seigaku. He knew what he had seen.

**…**

Kazuya handed the shaking freshman a bottle of water. "What happened? You went from leading to not putting up a fight."

"It's him."

"Who?"

"_Mars_."

Kazuya stared.

Echizen took four gulps of water. "I remember the footwork," he muttered. "And you've played him before. Trust me, Tokugawa-san. That's the guy."

The junior inhaled. Not too long ago, he wouldn't have listened to anything the thirteen year old had to say. Now, he found his nerves knotting at Echizen's judgement.

"Alright," said Kazuya. "I'm going to make a call. Don't be the victim. Burn him down."

**…**

Grisham played a heavy ball, always focusing on the bottom of the court. Though Ryoma could often reach the shots, his volleys sent the sphere into the net. The crowd were buzzing: in his hometown, Ryoma had a reputation as a prodigious rookie. His supporters didn't want to see him lose.

Yet, he couldn't fully concentrate. He had met people in the past whom he despised, certainly, but Grisham…

Ryoma had such deep loathing for the sneering teen that he scared himself.

Then the umpire announced that the first set was Grisham's. Tokugawa had disappeared from the bench. Ryoma sat alone, a towel resting on his eyelids. He was too hot.

He could still see the flashes in the back of his mind. He remembered the shrieks, the smoke, the flames. How many of his rivals still had nightmares about that night?

_Don't be the victim_.

Ryoma rolled his shoulders. He smirked and took his place on the court.


	8. chapter seven

The last chapter. It's a rushed ending, I know. This story isn't my best work. Still, thank you for reading.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

Kazuya smiled. Echizen had made a full recovery.

He wasn't content with defeating Grisham. He wanted to see the enemy destroyed, and so, Echizen was using a series of deep shots. Grisham was being undone by his own play style.

The junior did not know what was happening in the background, but he had placed things in motion, and soon, he was certain, there would be justice. Part of Kazuya wanted to be the one to punish Grisham. However, Echizen was doing a good job.

They entered the third set. Kazuya gave Echizen a decisive nod, hoping the boy would understand.

He did.

The points passed in seconds. Echizen was not being drawn into long rallies. He won game after game, power increasing with each victory. He was a monster.

After losing five consecutive games, Grisham threw his racquet on the floor. He exchanged heated words with the umpire and picked up the instrument once more.

Something in Echizen snapped.

Kazuya watched as the freshman played effortless tennis. Echizen was surrounded by a glowing aura. Every swing was calculated.

"Game, set and match – Master Echizen."

It was over. And when Kazuya saw officials converge on the players' tennis bags, he knew that the battle was done.

**…**

Ryoma sat in the living room, Karupin curled on his lap. He ran his fingers over her head and along her fur. Once he had arrived home, following the interrogation at the tournament, Ryoma placed the small trophy next to his Nationals' medal. They were the two awards that _meant_ something.

Soon, Tokugawa would arrive, but the old man still wasn't awake. Ryoma sighed. He was gambling on a whim.

The doorbell rang.

Tokugawa drank a glass of orange juice. Ryoma did not know what sort of mental practice had prepared the junior for that morning. Perhaps Tokugawa was the type who was always stable, always ready to overcome a challenge.

"There's no point in sitting here," said Tokugawa. "Let's go to the court."

They began a light rally, a warm up exercise. Ryoma felt some of his tension dissipate. He was waiting for the moment his father would come downstairs, cross the house and stride outside…

"I want to thank you," called Ryoma, sending the ball across the court with an elegant backhand, "Tokugawa-sempai."

"You're strong," came the reply. "I want to watch you get stronger."

Ryoma jumped into the air and twisted into a smash. Tokugawa was ready: he lobbed the ball high.

The sphere fell two meters and was knocked away by another tennis ball.

"Well now," said Nanjiroh, "what do we have here?"

**…**

For a moment, Kazuya felt childish enough to rub his eyes. He held back the urge. He stared at the man he had not seen in ten years. His old inspiration. His old hero.

"This is Tokugawa Kazuya-san," Echizen introduced. "He was on the First Court at the Under-Seventeen camp."

"Hah." Samurai Nanjiroh peered at Kazuya. "So you're one of Nyudou's punks."

Kazuya nodded. "It would be an honour to have a match with you. I understand that you're busy and that your time is valuable."

Echizen snorted.

_I know that what I'm saying is strange, but I think you're good enough to put up a fight against my dad. He's the strongest person I know_.

Samurai Nanjiroh rubbed the stubble on his chin. His long hair was gone, and instead of sporting attire, he was dressed in a robe. "Oh I don't know," he sang, "if you have a sister, I might consider it!"

"I'm afraid I don't."

Echizen's eyes flicked from his father to Kazuya. He'd warned that Echizen Nanjiroh did not play tennis with strangers.

_Maybe that's because he has nothing he'll get from it. All the old man is really interested in is enjoying himself. I think, with the right opponent…_

Deep down, the child was desperate to please his father. Kazuya was no different.

He told the former pro the same thing he had said to Echizen – "I enjoy tennis. Nothing pushes me more than defeat."

The wind raced through the trees, rattling branches. The air was thick with the scent of oranges.

Samurai Nanjiroh pointed his racquet. "Come forward, Kazuya."


End file.
